


This Thing We Started

by searchingwardrobes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hickeys, Making Out, One Night Stands, but not what you think, neal isn't henry's dad, single dad killian, single mom emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/pseuds/searchingwardrobes
Summary: Ruby convinces Emma that the best way to finish off her birthday celebration is a one-night stand with the hot British guy at the bar. But, as usual, things never go as Emma plans.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to be clear that I don't write smut or anything in the vicinity of smut. Read the tags. I don't want anyone to be disappointed. Like the tags say, this is a one-night stand fic, but not in the way you think. Having said that, it was fun to write, and I hope you all enjoy it!

People talk about having a voice on either shoulder. Emma Swan has three. In the form of her three best friends. Ruby sees everything through the lens of fun. If it feels good do it, que-sera-sera and all of that. Sometimes Ruby helps Emma get perspective and lighten up. Other times she just gets her into trouble. Then there’s Mary Margaret, the hopeless romantic who thinks that out there somewhere is Emma’s true love, and once fate leads her to him, Emma’s life will just fall into place. Like what Mary Margaret has with David. Mary Margaret’s voice is usually the easiest for Emma to ignore. She stopped believing in fairy tale endings a long time ago. And then there’s Elsa, the practical one. She also just _gets_ Emma because where Emma’s been called prickly, Elsa’s been called cold, so she understands Emma’s walls. But she also cuts to the chase and isn’t afraid to call Emma out on her crap. The only problem is when the words coming out of Elsa’s mouth sound like psycho-babble. So Emma’s constantly got three differing opinions chirping in her ear. Even when they aren’t present because she knows in every situation what each of them would say.

All three of them agreed, however, on the best way for Emma to spend her 28th birthday. So she left Henry with Granny and the four of them headed to New York. After a day of shopping and a Broadway show, they’re now in the hotel bar, and Ruby thinks the perfect way for Emma to cap off the day is with a no-strings attached night of passion with a good-looking guy.

“The last thing someone with Emma’s intimacy issues needs is casual sex, Ruby.”

That was cerebral Elsa, of course.

“Although,” puts in Mary Margaret, “striking up a conversation with someone wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You never know where it might lead.”

“Where could it possibly lead?” argues Elsa. “We’re on vacation. In a different state.”

“Why does it have to lead anywhere?” Ruby asks with a shrug, “I’m just trying to find a guy for her to bang. When was the last time you had sex anyway, Emma?”

Mary Margaret’s and Elsa’s pale cheeks both turn ten shades of red. Elsa is blunt but never crass, and Mary Margaret’s never known any man but David, high school sweethearts and all. Ruby does have a point, however, it’s been . . . well, Henry’s three, so let’s just say it’s been awhile.

“Besides,” Ruby continues, “if you don’t drag that guy over there upstairs, I will. I mean, damn, would you look at him?”

All three of them follow Ruby’s gaze to the bar, not really expecting to be blown away because, honestly, Ruby didn’t get the title _man-eater_ for nothing. But then Emma sees the guy, and – hot damn! – Ruby was right. It’s been awhile since Emma’s jaw has dropped just looking at a guy, but it’s happening now.

“Whoa,” is all Mary Margaret can say. And that’s actually a lot. She usually only has eyes for David.

“I bet he’s an actor on a soap opera,” Ruby giggles, “with a pretty face like that?”

“I wouldn’t call him pretty,” Emma says hoarsely. He exudes too much raw masculinity to be called pretty, not to mention the scruff on his face that gives him an edge of mystery.

“I agree with Emma,” Elsa agrees, “I would guess he’s a musician. Look at those tight jeans and that leather jacket.”

“Oh, I’m looking alright,” Ruby purrs.

The guy glances their way (because he feels their eyes boring into him, most likely), and they all hurriedly look away, except for Ruby who grins wolfishly at him and wiggles her fingers in greeting. But the glance was enough for Emma to see how bright blue his eyes are.

“God, Emma, did you see those eyes?” Ruby asks as she continues to ogle the guy. She smoothes out her skirt and moves to stand. “I’m not letting that man candy go to waste, Emma.”

Emma clamps her hand down on Ruby’s arm. “Now wait just one second. He’s mine.”

Ruby smirks at her in triumph while Mary Margaret encourages her to talk to him and get to know him while Elsa keeps admonishing that the whole thing’s a bad idea. Emma knocks back one more shot, but not to get her tipsy. She needs to have her faculties to read the guy; she’s not stupid. She just needs a shot of liquid courage. Because Ruby’s right – it’s been awhile.

The guy’s not stupid either, he glances over her shoulder when Emma approaches him. He knows full well they were checking him out. But his eyes also rake over her approvingly, and it’s plain as day he’s happy that she approached him. When he opens his mouth, a British accent comes out. The next chance she gets, she glances back over at Ruby and mouths, “Oh. My. God.” Then she composes herself, smooths out her hair, and dials up the flirting. Their banter is laced with innuendo and contains absolutely no personal content, which is exactly how Emma likes her one night stands. It only takes one more drink for him to have her pressed against the wall in the elevator. God, he’s a good kisser!

They giggle and stumble down the hall to Emma’s room, unable to keep their hands off each other. The door has barely shut behind them when he has her on the bed, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck.

Emma doesn’t know exactly what happens. One minute she’s moaning as he kisses along her décolletage, and the next he’s sliding the zipper down the side of her too-tight dress and the action is like a bucket of cold water being dumped on her. He gasps and pulls away from her, feeling it too. They both look at each other with wide, panicked eyes and then speak simultaneously.

“I can’t do this.”

“I can’t do this.”

He groans and rolls over onto the bed, flinging his arm across his face. They’re both lying there panting as their heart rates work to get back to a normal rhythm. When they speak again, it’s at the exact same time.

“I have a son.”

“I have a daughter.”

And then they’re both laughing at the absurdity of the situation. They both roll over to face each other, and Emma realizes neither of them are as drunk as they had been pretending to be. Emma props her head on her hand.

“I used to do this all the time. But then I had Henry, and well . . .he’s three.”

He smiles back at her in understanding. “I used to do this all the time, too. But then I met my wife, and then she died, and now it’s just me and Haley . . . she’s five.”

He stares at her for a moment, then sighs and stands up. “Well, I’ll be going then.” He says it in such a sad, resigned voice that it breaks Emma’s heart a little. He picks his jacket up off the floor where Emma had pushed it off his shoulders. But before he can put it back on and walk out the door, Emma grabs his hand. She’s hearing Mary Margaret in her head. _You understand each other! That’s got to mean something._

“You don’t have to go,” she tells him. “We could watch TV, get room service.” Emma bites her lip, nervous she’s pushed too far.

“Seriously? Because usually when I mention my dead wife and my daughter, women are halfway out the door.”

Emma shrugs and gives him a smile, “Men usually do the same when I mention my son. Please stay. I want you to.”               “Okay then,” he says, smiling so brightly she can now see he has dimples. He tosses his jacket on the back of a chair. “My name’s Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan.”

              *************************************************************

Emma wakes up the next morning in Killian’s arms, but not because they changed their minds about the sex. They’re both still fully clothed. Okay, maybe not fully. Killian’s in only his boxers and his white v-necked undershirt, and Emma is in a t-shirt and yoga pants. Still, they only did two things last night – well, three if you count eating way too much candy from the mini-bar, and sex wasn’t one of them.

The first was just talk; they never did turn on the TV. Emma would have kicked him out or tackled him in exchange for mindless sex instead if it hadn’t been for Elsa’s practical voice in her head. _This is good, Emma. This is healthy._ Amazingly, she told him all about her years growing up in foster care. Far more than she had ever told anyone else. But it’s because Killian, it turns out, is an orphan too and has his own tragic stories to tell. At age 13 his brother Liam became old enough to be his guardian, and then he had some semblance of a family.

She tells him how she started sleeping around at fifteen, craving intimacy while fearing it at the same time. She admits that she has no idea who Henry’s father is; even if she could narrow down the guy, she wouldn’t know his name. Her eyes drop to the mattress at that, but Killian tilts her chin up to look at him. She sees in his eyes that he understands.

He tells Emma how he idolized his brother. So much so that he followed him into the Navy, only to lose him. It’s then that he went off the deep end with liquor and women. He was in a band, too, so one-night stands had been easy to come by. Milah, his wife, owned a pub where his band played frequently. Even though she watched him go home with different women every night, she still fell madly in love with him, and he with her. When Milah got pregnant, he gave up the band, but they were so blissfully happy. Haley was only a year old when Milah got sick – stage five breast cancer. Six months later, Milah was gone and Killian was alone with an 18 month old baby.

“Haley’s my whole world,” he tells her then, and Emma looks up at him with tenderness in her eyes.

“And Henry is mine.”

Killian leans down and kisses her then, and it’s the most tender kiss Emma has ever known.

So here they are, morning, and Emma is curled up against him, her head on his chest. She thinks he’s still asleep until his hand starts rubbing her arm. Killian’s touch has heat that lights her on fire from the inside, which reminds her of the other thing they did last night: make out like a couple of teenagers. Even though he can’t see her face right now, she blushes as she remembers the moans just light petting had elicited from her. It’s then that reality hits Emma like a Mac truck: what they shared last night was far more intimate than mere sex would have been. She can hear Elsa’s voice in her head: _Queue the panic._ And sure enough, it comes. Emma takes a few deep breaths before slipping as calmly as she can from his embrace. He’s leaving for London this morning. She’s leaving for Storybrooke. It’s not like this can go anywhere, but she still doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Hey,” he says sleepily, grabbing her hand as she eases from the bed, “how about some breakfast.”

“Oh, um, I’m actually meeting my friends for breakfast,” Emma explains as she shrugs into a hoodie. She stands there regarding him awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears and crossing her arms across her chest. It isn’t a lie; she really is supposed to meet the others at nine before driving back to Storybrooke.

“Okay,” Killian replies easily as he stands and pulls his jeans back on. He then reaches for the hotel pad of paper and pen on the bedside table and jots something down on it. He rips off the top sheet and hands it to her.

“My contact information,” he explains with a lopsided grin. His gaze is both gentle and sincere as he continues in a softer voice, “I really like you, Emma. Since we didn’t do anything stupid, I’m hoping we can stay in touch. I mean, this wasn’t just a one-time thing. Not for me, at least.”

Emma gives him a tentative smile as she takes the piece of paper and crams it unceremoniously into the pocket of her hoodie. Killian’s gaze follows her movement, and the light in his eyes dims.

“Well,” he says, scratching behind his ear, “I’ll take my leave, then.”

He shrugs into his shirt without buttoning it up, then heads for the door with his jacket and shoes still in his hand. Emma lets her head fall backward in frustration at herself.

“Killian, wait,” Emma calls after him.

He turns in the doorway, and Emma just stands there, unsure of what exactly she can say. Finally, when he raises his eyebrows at her in confusion, she decides that if she’s never going to see him again, at least she can get one last kiss. So she grabs the gaping lapels of his unbuttoned shirt and hauls him in. He gasps in shock at first, dropping his jacket and shoes with a thud. But he quickly catches up, kissing her back thoroughly until both their lips are swollen. She thinks again that he’s the most fantastic kisser she’s ever met.

When they finally part, breathless, Killian rests his forehead against hers and thumbs the dimple in her chin. “I could fall in love with you, Emma Swan,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. He opens them before Emma can look away and she feels as if she’ll drown in the deep blue of those eyes. He traces her cheek with his fingertips, “But you won’t let me, will you? You’re going to throw away my contact information, aren’t you?”

Killian’s hand drops away and he sighs as Emma remains silent. He bends to retrieve his things, and with a whispered good-bye, walks away from her door.

“I could fall in love with you too, Killian,” she whispers to his retreating form.

But she doubts he heard her.

              ********************************************************

“So he spent the night in your room – the _entire_ night – but you didn’t sleep with him?” Ruby hisses across the table, half-eaten bagel still in her hand.

“Well, technically, we _slept_ ,” Emma responds wryly.

“But no sex? Seriously?” Ruby tears a piece from her bagel violently, but pauses before putting the piece in her mouth as a revelation seems to hit her, “Wait, is he gay?”

“No, he is definitely _not_ gay,” Emma states emphatically, feeling infantile when she blushes.

“So what did you do all night?” Ruby asks incredulously.

“We talked mostly,” Emma says with a shrug, “and . . . other things.”

“What other things?” Elsa asks.

“God, Elsa,” Emma says with a roll of her eyes, “do I have to spell it out for you? We made out.”

Ruby reaches for the collar of Emma’s button-down flannel shirt, exposing the black and blue mark on her neck. “A hickey!” Ruby exults, “He gave her a hickey!”

“Quiet down, Rubes,” Emma hisses as she re-adjusts her collar, “what is this, high school?”

“So what did you guys talk about?” Mary Margaret asks eagerly. Only she would be more interested in the conversation.

Emma shrugs again as she spreads jam on a piece of toast, “You know, just stuff. Our childhoods. Our kids. We talked a lot about our kids.”

“He has kids?” asks Ruby with a wrinkled nose.

“Yes, Ruby,” Emma snaps, “kids. Which is probably why we thought twice about having sex with someone we just met.”

Ruby’s eyes grow large, “How many does he have?”

Emma drops her knife with a clatter, frustrated at Ruby’s inquisition, “Just one. A five year old daughter. His wife died three and a half years ago of cancer.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret breathes, “he sounds wonderful! And it’s so romantic that you stayed up all night just kissing and talking. What a gentleman! I hope you’ll stay in touch.”

Emma shakes her head, “He wanted to. Gave me his information. But I threw it away.”

Mary Margaret gasps in shock, and even Ruby thinks she’s crazy, but Elsa is the cold voice of reason.

“I think Emma is wise to break it off now. He’s a grieving widower with a child. Emma has a child of her own. Not to mention that long-distance relationships never work.”

“What was he doing in New York?” Mary Margaret asks, ignoring Elsa’s cold logic.

“A job interview,” Emma answers, “he didn’t really get into the details.”

“See,” Mary Margaret tells Elsa smugly.

“See what?” Elsa scoffs with a roll of her eyes. “It’s still long-distance. Emma needs to use her head.”

“She needs to follow her heart,” argues Mary Margaret.

“I was thinking of an organ a little farther south,” quips Ruby.

“And I would appreciate you all dropping the entire subject,” Emma huffs in frustration.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret whispers urgently, “there he is!”

Emma glances behind her, and sure enough, Killian is sitting at a table on the other side of the room. He’s perusing the menu, so he hasn’t noticed her yet. Emma quickly turns back around.

“Yep,” Ruby says with a nod, “just as hot as I remembered.”

Elsa narrows her eyes as she takes him in, “Actually, Emma, on second thought, maybe using your head in this situation isn’t the best course of action.”

Mary Margaret nudges Emma’s arm, “Go on, go talk to him. Give him your number!”

Emma stands quickly, hands shaking, and tosses some bills onto the table. “That should cover my order. I’ll see you all in Storybrooke.”

Emma then walks as quickly as she can for the hotel exit, ignoring her friends protests. She purposely keeps her head forward, not wanting to see the look of hurt in Killian’s eyes as she walks away. Or the look of indifference.

She isn’t sure which would be worse. Either way, it’s why she doesn’t turn around.

              ************************************************************

A week later, Emma is enjoying her favorite lunch of grilled cheese and onion rings at Granny’s. The buzz around town is that Mayor Mills finally hired a new harbor master, and whoever it is just rolled into town in a black extended cab truck with just a few suitcases and boxes in the back. The type of vehicle combined with the small amount of personal effects has every single woman in town speculating that it’s a bachelor. Emma just rolls her eyes at the gossip. The only thing she cares about is how the harbor master does his or her job, since it directly affects hers as sheriff.

Emma is licking the last drop of cheese from her pinkie finger when a little girl scrambles onto the stool next to her. She’s wearing a tunic shirt covered in daisies over a pair of yellow leggings. Disney princess shoes adorn her feet, the kind that light up when you walk. She has to kneel on the stool so she can reach the counter.

“One chocolate milkshake please,” the little girl tells Granny in an adorable British accent.

Emma and Granny both raise their eyes, looking around the diner for the child’s parents. Emma catches Granny’s eye, and the older woman nods.

“You’re a little young to be ordering all by yourself,” Emma says gently, tipping her head so she can look the child in the eye. “How old are you, kid?”

“Would you believe ten?”

Emma suppresses a chuckle and shakes her head.

“Eight?” the child sighs as Emma once again shakes her head. “Okay, I’m five.”

Emma nods. She wants to get information, and she knows the best way to do that is to play it cool, “So where are your parents?”

The little girl sighs, bites her lip, and then leans closer to Emma, “Okay, see, my dad said we would come here for lunch today. I want a milkshake, but Dad always says no. That I have to eat my lunch first. But I don’t want lunch. Can’t the milkshake be my lunch?”

"So you got here early so you could have the milkshake before he saw you.”

The little girl’s face brightens, and when she smiles dimples appear on her freckled cheeks. “Exactly!”               Emma leans forward, “The problem is, I’m a mom, so I’m not going to let you either.”

The little girl scowls and crosses her arms, “But you’re not _my_ mum.”

“But you do need money, kid,” Granny tells the child gruffly.

The little girl swivels on her stool to face Granny, reaching smugly into the pocket of her tunic. She pulls out a ten dollar bill with a flourish and smacks it down onto the counter. “Will that cover it?”

Emma’s hand flies to her mouth as she suppresses her laughter. This kid is the most precocious, sassy little thing she’s ever seen. Once Emma has composed herself, she leans over the counter towards the child and speaks to her sternly. “You know what else I am besides a mom, kid? The sheriff of this town.” The little girl’s eyes grow large. “Where did you get that money?”

The child quirks one dark eyebrow and tilts her chin defiantly. “My allowance.”

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, kid. I have this gift – we’ll call it a super power – I can tell when people are lying to me. So I’ll ask you again. Where’d you get the money?”

The little girl sighs and lowers her head, “My dad’s wallet.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Haley.”

Emma feels as if the room is suddenly spinning. She blinks and looks the little girl over. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, British accent. It couldn’t be . . .

“Haley Elizabeth Jones!” another British voice calls out from the door of the diner. Emma’s jaw drops as Killian Jones himself rushes towards her. But he doesn’t even see Emma, too intent on his little girl who he hugs tightly to his chest. “Bloody hell, lass, you just took ten years off my life! Never, never, wander away like that!”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Haley mumbles against Killian’s neck as she throws her little arms around him. Killian pulls away and looks her over, running a hand over his little girl’s hair and over her shoulder as if she might be hurt. Haley sheepishly takes the ten dollar bill and hands it to him. “I took the money from your wallet, too. I’m sorry. The sheriff lady caught me.”

Killian finally turns towards Emma then and blinks rapidly as if he’s seen a ghost. “Swan?”

“Killian,” Emma breathes, her hand fluttering to the pale mark still on her neck. The way they’re grinning at each other like idiots and blushing like fools, you would think they had actually had sex. “What are you – what are you doing here?”

“I got the job,” he explains, “the one I was telling you about.”

“You mean, you’re the new harbor master?” Killian nods and Emma shakes her head in confusion. “But your interview was in New York.”

“Mayor Mills had some business there anyway, and she thought travel would be easier for me from London. I thought the change would be good for Haley. Living in a small town and all.”

They just stand there staring at each other until Haley pipes up. “The sheriff says she’s a mum too, Daddy,” Haley takes Emma’s hands in hers and looks at them intently. “But she doesn’t have a wedding ring. Are you married, sheriff lady?”

“No, sweetie,” Emma says with a mirthful smile, “I’m not married.”

“That’s great! My daddy isn’t married either, and I need a mum!”

“Okaaaay,” Killian chuckles nervously as he scoops Haley up into his arms. He turns to Emma blushing furiously, “I’m gonna get this lass home. And then I’m gonna dig myself a really deep hole and crawl into it.”

He scratches behind his ear with his free hand as he turns towards the door, still carrying Haley. Mary Margaret’s voice is suddenly in Emma’s head, chirping on about fate and destiny, which propels Emma off her stool.

“Killian, wait.”

He turns towards her, that lopsided grin of his on his face.

“I know how it is unpacking. I was thinking Henry and I could stop by later with a couple of pizzas.”

“I appreciate that, Ms. Swan. That’s very hospitable of you.”

Okay, she’s going to have to be far more direct. “I was hoping Henry and I could eat with the two of you. We could consider it our second unconventional date.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile widens. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, smiling back, “this thing we started; may as well see where it goes, right?”

Hope sparkles in Killian’s eyes. “Right. See you tonight, Swan.”

Behind the counter, Granny can’t hold her laughter back any longer when Haley pumps her little fist into the air and crows, “YES! I’m getting a mum!”

It turns out the little girl was right. Eight months later, Haley Jones has a mum and Henry Swan Jones has a dad. Turns out Mary Margaret was right all along: there’s nothing hopeless about being a romantic.


End file.
